Writer's Block
by morning.chickenhead
Summary: Clare may have writer's block in terms of her school assignments, but since laying eyes on her new English partner, Mme Degrassi's fanfics haven't suffered at all...Eventual Eclare; I imagine this as a fanfic Clare might write. Please leave a review!
1. Reflection

Author's Note: I'm back writing again and I'm excited! And I still own nothing Degrassi-related. However I do claim ownership of everything that doesn't include Degrassi-related character names.

_Reflection_

A foggy night.

Again.

A night most would classify as gloomy or depressing. But it was precisely that fog which permitted Saraiah to see all the more clearly. It allowed her to see the ancient wind that had risen up from the earth at its very birth time, to see it dancing in its wailing wisdom as it boosted the fog gently from its dark soil origins; and even more importantly and eerily, in a way that gripped Saraiah's heart in her chest, it allowed her to see her own reflection as she peered out into the darkness – an act that was supposed to be both excruciatingly painful and severely forbidden.

As a pure-blooded vampire – both her dead parents had been the same before Saraiah's birth, making her hunger for the blood of humans the most natural and the most powerful – to seek her own reflection was something that would never have been desired, let alone pursued, in her parents' generation of The Cross. But Saraiah, with her seemingly innocent eyes and almost humanly tender touch with all those she encountered, including her prey, represented a new specimen, a new chapter in her family's strictly religious and bitterly angry history.

"The Cross," as they called themselves, was a reference to the humans' Christian religion, which, unbeknownst to those naïve creatures, actually sprang from a timeless vampire legend about the secret power of their females. Saraiah had learned all of this from extensive research from the oldest of books, conducted only following Var and Cassandra Cross's bloody demise at the hands of another. Declan, as he was known, surname long forgotten, had once been a close family friend, and Saraiah's tutor ever since she could crawl. Fortunately for her, his secretly-held political views eventually led her to pursue the truth about The Cross. But she did so in deep sadness over his gradual succumbing to a paranoid-narcissistic personality disorder that destroyed her more conservative parents' lives.

Conservative, it was true, for although their name referred to a once powerfully suggestive story that permitted the magic held by female vampires – the power to conceive new life without having a seed planted in them by a male – to be utilised for good in a suffering world, The Cross branch had centuries ago latched on to the humanoid version of the tale and worshipped the male as hero, saviour, possessor, and controller; they followed a pseudo-Christian theology which permitted – nay, encouraged! – the taking of multiple wives by male vamps, the rape and torture of animals, and the confined breeding of humans for both food and amusement. It was no small wonder with such horrors committed by her family throughout the ages that they promoted a rule of never seeking one's reflection – it would be hell, a death sentence, to peer into the eyes that had observed their attached body in the act of such crimes.

Mirrors, of course, did nothing for her, but having divorced herself from friendship with Declan, one whom she had always, childishly, hoped to marry, Saraiah was lonely. Her only comfort was in her deep committal to "finding herself" – and discovering her literal reflection was a part of that journey for her.

It was a night much like tonight, a sad and solitary one, confined in her parents' old library, gazing out the one tiny window in the old mansion's parapet. A fire was burning, wild and hungry, in the grated hearth, and Saraiah was in the process of burning her parents' books, one by one, gradually replacing them with her own, the few truth-tellers she had as of yet come across in her travels. Her arms had grown tired of flinging those purveyors of violence and terror into their rightful place of non-existence, so she flopped on the window seat for rest.

A cloud of fog had gathered outside, she noticed, dampening the smoke smell and lending a spooky air to the forest which surrounded the property. Saraiah started when she thought, for a fleeting moment, that she glimpsed a face, not of someone on the ground, as would be expected, but hovering just by the window. Looking back to the fire to regain her composure, Saraiah shook her tired head to clear it of such illusions. She then returned her gaze to the window. The fog had grown even thicker, and as she looked out, she found herself actually searching, thoughtfully, for the face which had momentarily frightened her. And there, in that fog, the silhouette of a round and furrowed face appeared, slowly but surely. This time, Saraiah didn't turn away.

It was a small face, a pretty face, with a tiny bow mouth and puffy cheeks. The eyes were the most striking. They were the clearest Saraiah had ever seen, clearer even than Declan's, whose eyes she had always admired more than anyone else's, and had taken every opportunity to catch. They had a deep wisdom to them, a sadness in their knowledge, but also a sparkle that invited a quick smile in the cheeks. Feeling a tightness in her own cheek, Saraiah put her hand there to investigate, only to find that her own face was smiling as well. The face she saw…was hers.

Thinking back to that night, and realizing how much she had learned since then, Saraiah smiled now once more out at her reflection. Now she was surrounded by a library of books that suited her much better than Var and Cassandra's indoctrinating drivel. She had completed the process of winning custody of the mansion over the angry bids made by Var's other wives in The Cross, and made a home quite comfortably there with cats and birds and a stray dog as frequent visiting friends. And she had finally gotten over Declan. Although her parents had harmed her in many ways in their teachings of her, and although they had claimed to love each other but had acted as though ageless enemies, she had loved them and she loved them still. She could not forgive Declan for their murders.

Quietly in the back of her mind, though, she asked herself if she didn't still love him as well. No human that she met on her hunts for the blood that sustained her ever gave her as much satisfaction as she found in intellectual conversation and flirtation with Declan, even though she often befriended them to quell some of her loneliness before she bled them dry. And she kept no contact with any other vampires, for it was only The Cross that lived in this part of the world, and she refused to stoop to that level.

So, she had to admit, in a way she pined for Declan's companionship. Saraiah sighed. Could there be something more for her in this little world she constructed around herself than her readings and ponderings? Could there be someone out there besides Declan who would be a suitable mate?

Those questions, ever unresolved, fled from Saraiah's mind, as just as that one night long ago when she had discovered her own reflection, she noticed something outside that made her jump. Two tiny figures on a horse were galloping toward her home. Saraiah's heart pounded. For as much as she desired company, this seemed an omen – an omen that to her meant change, certainly, but that also foretold of a darkness that matched the figures' cloaked bodies and the horse's heavy, stamping hooves.


	2. Visitors

**Author's Note: **Still own nothing Degrassi-related.

_Visitors_

"What is this?" Saraiah gasped from halfway down the winding staircase as none other than the brash and determined Declan burst through the mansion doors. She had not seen that face for going on six months now, and she had, perhaps naïvely, believed she would be ever more safe from her feelings both for and against him.

But even more disturbing a sight to meet her eyes was the pale and weakened figure whom Declan dragged behind him – a pile of black rags, its only sign of life the ragged breathing that retched against the torn and damp excuse for clothing. Struck with sympathy, Saraiah quickly made for the creature, whom Declan had carelessly discarded on the cold floor.

But Declan held up a single hand and Saraiah stopped dead at the sign, still only partway across the large and drafty foyer. The physical suggestions of her former teacher's body language apparently still held merciless sway over her. "Well?" she panted, trying to cover what she perceived to be her weakness in this grand master's presence. "What is the meaning of this?"

"We don't have time for questions today, Saraiah," Declan intoned gravely, ever the cool professor. His voice was soft, not abrupt like his actions.

"Well why are you here?" Saraiah persisted, crossing her arms over her chest. She snuck a glance at Declan's sad load. Human or vampire, it was a man, she could see now. And he, too, was peeking at her from under his dark hood, from under the scraps of black hair that fell greasily over not frightened or disturbed, but markedly cunning eyes.

"You can see very well why I am here," Declan replied, following her gaze. "We have a visitor."

"I think you mean that _I _have _visitors_ – plural, more than one. You are one of them, and if we are keeping score, I must say that you are not a welcome one."

Declan ignored her retort as he threw off his own cloak and clomped into the next room, the parlour, muttering to himself. Saraiah caught some of the words: "need some rope...dire consequences...more than unfortunate."

She called after him sarcastically. "If this is a social call, perhaps I can fetch us some coffee and toast."

Leaving the second 'visitor' stretching and grunting a bit on the floor, she swore, then hurried after the first visitor.

"What, may I ask, are you doing!" she cried, when she saw his large hands on the heavy velvet curtains of the front bay window. She was too late, however. The drapes fell in one swoop to a pile on the floor, similar to the one Saraiah had left in the foyer, but more elegant in their former beauty of forest green cloth and golden thread, and therefore even more tragic to her in their swift demise.

"Rope," Declan murmured, picking up the golden cords and abandoning the rest as he crossed to the heavy oak desk and started rifling through the drawers.

Saraiah's heart hurt. How dare he destroy her things, how dare he go through her paperwork? Yet she had tired of this mystery and had no words now to contain Declan's actions. So she simply whispered, "You are maddening," and returned to the foyer.

The man was still on the ground, although he had shifted to a sitting position, his back supported by the door, whose yelp from the slam Declan had forced upon it Saraiah still felt to echo throughout the house. Her visitor did not look up upon her arrival. He was combing his fingers through his dishevelled hair here, rebuttoning his cloak there. Were he a cat, he would be absolutely grooming his proud, shiny coat.

Saraiah took the opportunity to examine him further, having nothing else to do until Declan decided to let her in on the secrets he purposely teased her with.

He had a thick yet gaunt face, Saraiah decided, decorated with a roundish nose and studded with those knowing, playful eyes. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought him to be grinning. But surely not. Not if that rope – more accurately the pulls of the lovely curtains she had slaved over as a gift ordered by her father for her mother during Saraiah's teenage years – was intended for him.

Though he had not acknowledged her, when he looked up the man's eyes landed directly on hers. He had been aware of her presence, her watchful eye. "I think I might be able to answer some of those questions," he stated simply.


	3. Untying Knots

**Disclaimer: **Yeah, I don't own Degrassi.

_Untying Knots_

She had seen the fangs when he opened his mouth to speak. So he was a vamp. Was he part of The Cross? Had he perhaps tried to assassinate Declan for his rogue beliefs? Or was he an up-and-coming member of the family that Declan had kidnapped in an attempt to resist their violent hierarchy? Saraiah's mind was racing now, and beneath all the thoughts she barely realized that the young man had just offered her the gift of information.

When she did, she approached it with caution, more than aware that he probably spoke not the truth. "Go ahead," she nodded, a prim look on her face.

"I'm not part of The Cross," was the first thing he said. "I just want to assure you of that. You may not believe anything I say, but please believe that. You have nothing to fear from me." He looked away. "At least in those terms," he added softly.

Saraiah's heart quieted its anxious thumping slightly. She felt he was telling the truth. And she couldn't help but feel an exhilaration at the possibility of meeting another vampire from outside The Cross.

"Tell me your name," she suggested.

"My name isn't truly important at the moment," he replied, a pained look on his face.

"Don't play with me," she commanded. "You said you had answers."

"You're right. You're right. I don't wish to play games with your mind. That's not why I'm here." A grin tugged at his lips. "Then again, I didn't seem to get much say in coming here at all."

"Yes, why is that exactly?" She left the issue of the name, appeased by the stranger's words and still feeling as though he actually was speaking the truth. She was more concerned now with getting his side of the story before Declan, who was still going through her desk, returned to the room.

"Well, as is quite obvious, your _friend _in there has kidnapped me. I believe he brought me here for...safe-keeping? He said something of the sort, anyhow."

"I see. And why would he kidnap you if you're not part of The Cross?"

"I put it down to the moment when I very rudely interrupted a – er, how shall I put this? – a_ meeting_ he was having with Ginger Cross," the stranger explained slyly.

"Ginger? Are you serious?" She kind of laughed, and kind of groaned in disgust. The explanation had caught Saraiah off guard, and she was pulled unexpectedly into a moment of friendly gossip with this person whose name she did not even know.

"Yeah, I know, sick, right?"

"Absolutely horrid!" Saraiah agreed. But she quickly returned to a more serious tone. She realized the implications of a relationship between Declan and any member of The Cross, let alone Ginger Cross herself – one of the nastiest and most powerful women in The Cross, she was known to hold sway over political decisions made by the men's Upper Council. A distant cousin of her mother's, Saraiah had met the woman only once, and at the time had suspected an affair between her and Var.

What could Declan be doing with Ginger? Besides the obvious _doing_, of course...Saraiah rolled her eyes at the thought, her mind so revolted that her heart barely felt the hurt she expected. Noticing her former teacher leaving the desk, she decided not to mention the new-comer's warnings in order to learn whether Declan would offer the information himself. The news suggested that Declan could no longer be trusted as a political ally.

"I see you're becoming acquainted with our new friend," Declan declared as he strode in. "Good, because he will be staying here for awhile."

"He?" Saraiah repeated. "You're leaving?"

Declan spoke briskly as he set about restraining the other man in the golden rope.

"I need you to keep an eye on him while I find out more about who exactly he is." He pulled a knot tight, making his captor wince slightly. "He's not from any family that I know of, but he sure likes to meddle." Thinking he might be referring to the "interruption" the other had mentioned, Saraiah noticed a brief glower pass from Declan's countenance toward the younger man.

"So what am I, a nanny?" Saraiah demanded, though she was secretly pleased she would have time alone with the man. She was sure she could learn lots from him about the ways of other vampire families. And of course there was the matter of his handsome dark looks, his laid-back yet mysterious air...

"And what exactly is the big deal that you don't know what family he's from?" Saraiah said suddenly, irritated on the handsome stranger's behalf, as well as for the fact that Declan was private about his own ancestry. "Why don't you just ask him?"

A small smile formed on the prisoner's lips, his eyes sparkling at Saraiah's frankness. He swivelled his eyes toward Declan to await a reply.

Declan's response was impatient and condescending. "I have engaged in any number of inquiry methods your mind would never dream of, Saraiah. So I don't believe I need to take any advice from you."

That was it. Saraiah snatched the remaining ropes from Declan's hands, inserting herself between him and the man on the floor. She spoke terrifyingly low through angry bared fangs. "Don't forget that my evidently dreamless mind has witnessed those 'inquiry methods' of which you speak." She shoved her parents' murderer backwards. "Now get out. I'll take care of this one."

"Fine," Declan sneered. "Always were the little smart-mouthed bitch, weren't you?" As he reached for the door, he physically kicked the stranger out of the way, landing his foot squarely on the man's chest with a great force.

"I learned from the best," Saraiah replied tersely, kneeling by the man's side and already undoing the knots as Declan exited. He left the door wide open.

As he mounted the horse – whom Saraiah felt sorry for for having such a cold master – she called out sarcastically, "Take your time!"

Then she turned her attentions to the still nameless vamp in her charge, who now lay limply, the wind knocked out of him, in her arms.


	4. Playing Hostess

**Disclaimer: Degrassi is not mine for the taking.**

_Playing Hostess_

He was only out for a few minutes, but Saraiah was fast-moving, and had enough time to transport him to the library, where she laid him out before the fire on the thick velvet curtains ripped down by Declan's thoughtlessness. Several thick slices of bread were toasting and a pot of water was boiling. His damp cloak was draped over the set of wrought-iron fireplace tools, glistening in the fire's orange glow.

"Wh-?" His eyes were hazy as he stirred, but gradually he came to and was able to prop himself up on his elbow, taking in the cozoy sight of the fire. He sighed with pleasure. "Now that's more like it." And he laid back on the curtains, hands behind his head.

He hadn't appeared to notice Saraiah, seated on the over-stuffed Duncan Phyfe sofa behind him, pretending to read. She cleared her throat. He didn't move, but spoke instead. "So how did you get me here?"

"I carried you, of course," she replied, setting down the book without marking the page and getting up to turn the toast. She looked down at him as she did so, and thought she noticed him swallow harder than he should have. He may have been speaking the truth earlier, but he was almost certainly hiding something from her.

"Well! I wouldn't have expected a _lady_ to do such grunt work."

"I do all kinds of work," she responded evenly. And when she glanced back at him from the kettle, he was propped up again and grinning. She smiled, too.

"So maybe we could talk about that name of yours, now." She held out her hand. "I'm Saraiah."

He slid into a sitting position and took her hand in his, but did not shake it, or even kiss it. Instead he held it warmly, and for a long, thoughtful moment. "It's a great pleasure to meet you, Saraiah," he said softly.

When he let go her hand, she was quick to find a cover for the flush she felt from his touch. She reached her hand immediately to the stoker she had left out from underneath his cloak and stuck it into the ashes to stir them.

"Uh...is that thing safe?" She heard the man gulp at the sight of iron, and she grinned.

"Usually nobody comes up here but me," she explained, not taking her eyes away from the fire she was poking with the iron stick. "And speaking of safe, that's the way I like to keep my library."

The man shook his head slowly, clearly distracted. "You said 'up,' " he said in wonder. "You mean to say you carried me up that flight of stairs?"

"Two flights," she corrected.

"Well, my lady, you do me an honour. You are too kind a host."

At that, Saraiah popped the toast off the fire and onto a silver plate, followed by the kettle which had just begun to whine. She offered him the toast and he tentatively took a piece. "Your name," she repeated. Why was he so damned hesitant to give her his name?

"I doubt you've heard of me," he stalled, nibbling at the toast as Saraiah poured the hot water over a concoction of loose leaf tea in a glass carafe. "And I'm sure your friend hasn't either."

"I don't expect I have heard of you." Saraiah bit her lip and gazed at the man. She almost felt bad, raking him over the coals this way. Part of her wanted so badly to trust him, to give him time. After all, he had just been through a traumatic experience – probably a series of traumatic experiences. But she also recognized her trust for a man as weak as her trust of Declan had been. She knew she was hurting for a companion, and she couldn't let herself fall into any traps just because she was lonely. Still, she couldn't help but tack on, "By the way, he's not my friend."

The half-eaten piece of toast having been set back on the plate, Saraiah passed him a warm mug of the tea. "Maybe this will clear your mind," she suggested. And she added in a bit of teasing: "That kick must have hit you pretty hard for you to forget even your name."

He nodded with a slight smile as he closed his hands around the mug and blew to cool it. "Okay, you got me, I haven't forgotten my name because of the kick. I've forgotten my name due to being in the presence of such a stunning young woman."

Their eyes were directly fixed on one another's. She swallowed. "I can leave if that would help." But instead, she settled herself on the floor beside him, looking away and transfixing her eyes on the fire.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him sip at the tea, and she felt her heart pounding. She heard him draw in a deep breath, and felt her mind pleading for him to tell her his name – _now. _It was now or never. She pressed her lips together hard, and felt her own lungs breathing quickly.

"It's Eli," he finally said. "Eli Crisanto..."

Seeing him sway, Saraiah quickly took the mug from his hands before he could drop it and badly burn himself. As Eli fell back to the floor in a deep sleep, she tossed the rest of the liquid into the fire, letting it fizzle as she stood.

This time she could be sure Eli Crisanto would be out for more than a few minutes. She silently and facetiously wished Declan luck figuring out this man's identity without his name. It was time for her to do a little research of her own.


	5. Fishy

Disclaimer: Still don't own Degrassi.

_Fishy_

A quick glance through one of Saraiah's oldest books, the one holding the most information about various vampire families throughout the world, offered her a glimmer of satisfaction. Crisanto, meaning "golden flower," was indeed the name of a European family. However, the family had been wiped out since the 1500s, when most of its members had been tried by humans on the charge of participation in witchcraft, or simply disposed of, presumably bloodily, when suspected of demonic possession. Saraiah shivered at the thought. Humans sometimes perturbed her even more than The Cross did.

An immortal survivor of that travesty? The single and secret heir of that bloodline? How could it be possible that a Crisanto stood (lay – Saraiah's mouth twitched) before her today, five-hundred years after its extinction?

The thought of Mr. Crisanto's limp body sprawled on the floor on the other side of the room briefly tugged at Saraiah's heart. She wandered over and gazed down at him. He seemed much more peaceful than when he had been knocked out by Declan. Saraiah preferred to play gentle, when it was at all possible. And she had no intention of hurting this mysterious stranger. Still, there were too many unknowns for her to ignore, too many questions for her to await all the answers to emerge from his own mouth. That's why she had slipped that Jamaican dogwood in with his tea, smothered in rosemary, mint, and cinnamon to cover the bitter fish taste and the unabashed deceit that she now partially regretted.

Noticing a slight quiver in Eli's body, Saraiah reached down and wrapped the curtains tight around him. No doubt he was beginning to be affected by the dwindling fire. A spark still persisted where Saraiah had thrown the tea, so she placed another log on and stoked it briefly until it caught. "There," she murmured. "That should warm you up, little one."

She crossed to another bookshelf and pored through the titles for the one she was looking for. _Rogues,_ it was called. She must have misplaced it, as it wasn't with the R's as it should have been. "Strange," she said to herself. "I haven't looked at that thing for months." Hearing a cooing at the window, Saraiah went over to let her favourite pigeon in from the cold and the fog. The pink and white-breasted bird hopped up her arm and nibbled her ear in thanks. "Do you know where my book is, Dinah?" Saraiah asked in between giggles. She put her hand up on her shoulder for Dinah to hop on to, and began examining other bookshelves for _Rogues._

The book contained a series of legends, each on a different rogue vampire who had abandoned his family for political reasons. It had been a favourite of Saraiah's, considering her past obsession with Declan, and she had practically memorized a few of the legends, fantasizing that one of them might be him. She also fancied that perhaps one day she would be the subject of such a book, that she might recover the long-lost honour for female vampires by proving herself a heroine of her race.

And now, she thought, maybe one of those vampires was Eli. He could have left his own family and adopted the extinct Crisanto name for some particular reason. Sighing, she pulled a different book of the shelf, deciding to pursue that question instead. Why might he have adopted the name in the case that he wasn't an actual family member?

This book gave detailed history and definition of different names. Flipping through to the C's, Saraiah quickly learned a number of different things about the name, some making sense, while others were contradictory. The "golden flower" referred to by the name was the Chrysanthemum. It stood for both honesty and nobility. Saraiah snickered. So much for honest, at least as of yet. Then she chided herself, glancing over at her sweet-faced ward. He wasn't a complete liar. He had told her his name, after all...

Saraiah shivered when she read that Chrysanthemums could also signal death. Then she chided herself once more as Dinah fluttered off to investigate their house-guest from a perch on the sofa's arm. "A bird in the house means death in the house" was an old superstition that Saraiah's friendship with various winged creatures denied. And, it was a superstition she only mocked since her parents' death. To her, a friend like Dinah signified life. So there was no reason to assume a connection with Crisanto and death.

Unless, of course, by some strange twist to her understanding of life, Eli was actually dead. Dead and reborn? Or risen from the dead? Or, if immortal, perhaps he considered himself dead, in that to live forever is to be dead to all other beings?

Saraiah's heart sank as she read another tidbit of information. She hadn't realized until this moment how set was her heart on getting to know Eli Crisanto on a more intimate level. In some lore, the Chrysanthemum signified homosexuality. Could that be a reason for him to adopt the name? Had he left his family in order that he might pursue his true passions in life and not be severely punished (i.e. killed) for it? If so, Saraiah could easily understand. But she would be extremely disappoined if that was the case.

She set the book back in its place and settled on the couch beside Dinah, who pecked her a little to give her opinion on the situation. "I know, Dinah," Saraiah replied. "A lot of fishy stuff is going on tonight." Her mind returned to the missing book, then flipped to Declan's strange – no, not strange, but extremely irritating – behaviour, and finally, to Eli. He had stopped shivering now, and she smiled and closed her eyes in an odd contentedness. Why should she feel so safe and happy at this moment that so much which she couldn't explain was overtaking her? With the warmth of the fire, and her foot, which was hanging off the sofa, just softly touching Eli's leg through the blanket, she now felt herself drifting off. It would, after all, be rude to just sit there and stare at her guest while he himself was obliged to wander in dreamland...


	6. Favours

Author's Note: Don't own Degrassi. But...JUST MARRIED! So happy. Happy happy happy. Happy happy. Happy. HAPPY! Of course it just happened to be the best person in the world, lucky me...so, y'know. Sorry this person's already taken. lolol SO HAPPY! :) :) :)

_Favours_

Saraiah yawned a mewing yawn as a corner of sunlight hit her face from the tiny library window. When she opened her eyes she, blinded by the shock of the light which was all the more intense due to her genetics, could barely see a thing. The room appeared red and orange, a reflection of the insides of her eyelids. But, turning on her cunning ears, she felt she must be alone in the room. No familiar pecks or cooes from her pigeon friends, no scratches from any of the other animals that frequented the mansion. And no other vampire breath. Just the occasional crackle from a long-since fizzled fire. And some muffled birds voices, but only from outside the window. She wondered for a moment if she could've dreamed it all. She could handle the part with Declan being dreamed, but a potential friendship with one Eli Crisanto could only be real in her mind if today was to be a happy day.

As she slid to a sitting position, she realized that her beloved curtains were draped gently over her chilled body, and she couldn't withhold a wide smile. Only a hand much more caring than Declan's, which had defaced this piece of her art, this piece of her heart, had placed them over her in the early dawn. And that hand had to belong to Eli.

But, she realized, blinking away the light shock and stepping lightly to the library door, she had done a terrible job at guarding her apparent kidnappee. She crossed her fingers that he hadn't fled, though something about the way he had left her made her figure that he was interested in getting to know her as she was him.

Having closed the library door quietly behind her and prepared herself to tiptoe down the first flight of curving stairs, Saraiah jumped when she turned to find a full-grown person standing before her.

"Whoa!" Eli cried, laughing and trying to steady the silver platter he was holding. But the tea that was on it had been sufficiently unbalanced that a steady tinkle of it was dripping on to the thick red carpet beneath their feet. "Sorry," he said sheepishly as he replaced the teapot to an upright position. "Tea and toast," he continued, nodding to the dampened platter. "I thought I'd return the favour."

Now it was Saraiah's turn to be sheepish. Had he figured out her ploy with the tea? She gulped. "Just leave the tea," she suggested. "It'll dry. Shall we return to the library?"

A grin playing at the side of his lips, Eli nodded. He balanced the tray on one hand and swung the door back open with the other.

"So what did you find in the kitchen?" Saraiah asked, trying to be non-chalant as she seated herself back on the sofa.

"Oh, some yummy choke-cherry jelly, the stone-ground bread of course...and an assortment of herbs, I suppose."

"Oh?" she asked. "So what did you choose for our tea?"

"Well I found this interesting herb labelled 'Jamaican Dogwood,' which I hadn't heard of before, and I almost put it in, but then when I smelled it I changed my mind. Just went with good old peppermint."

Saraiah tittered. "That stuff is pretty rancid," she agreed.

"Seemed very familiar..."

He was teasing her.

"I'm sorry, okay!" she cried out. But he wasn't upset, and they were both smiling.

"It put me right out, hey?" he observed, now pouring what was left of the peppermint tea into a mug. He put his lips around its edge, and nodded down, as if to demonstrate, "This, however, is safe for the both of us." After taking a wholesome sip, he passed her the same mug. In fact, she realized now, he had only brought one mug with him.

"It did," she admitted. "I was lucky you told me your name before you fell asleep, so I had something to work from when I hit the books. But...why didn't you leave? I fell asleep, too, and I didn't even have any tea. How pathetic an attempt at safeguarding your continued presence at this place."

He smirked. "Oh, I just assumed you had charmed the property so I couldn't leave. So I didn't stray beyond the gate."

Hm. Not a bad idea. Her mind had been so filled with questions, wonderings, plots, and romances the night before, she hadn't thought of such a thing. Maybe she would do it later. Or maybe just skip to a love brew; then he would never even think to leave her...

"I see. Well maybe I just assumed in the same vein that you would choose _not_ to leave. You seemed impressed last night by the company, after all."

"Indeed." He took a nibble of the toast, leaving a bit of the jelly playfully on his lip.

Staring directly at the jelly, Saraiah pursued a line of questioning. But she believed, now, she did it purely as though they were on something of a date, and were getting to know each other; not, rather, as the interrogator and prison guard Declan had evidently intended her to be. "So, Eli Crisanto, might I ask, how did you end up with such a name...and by such a name I mean – an extinct one."

She was relieved that he answered her question in much the same way – now much more at ease – a date, yes, a romantic date, and not a date with the dastardly. "I did adopt the name," he replied earnestly, as though he knew she already suspected as much. "The flower has significant meaning to me." He flicked at the jelly with a pink tongue, revealing a hint of his fangs. Saraiah shivered.

"And..." She swallowed hard, trying to contain herself on this now mundane line of conversation in order to hide her growing attraction to this young man. "And...which of the many significant meanings is most significant to you, Eli Crisanto?"

"Saraiah Cross, if indeed you wish me to call you by such a name, and by such a name, I mean one which I believe you must be as horrified by as I am...Saraiah Cross, of the many significant meanings for the Chrysanthemum, that beautiful golden flower which just this morning I dared to notice blooming happily in your flower bed, the one that is most significant to me is that of nobility amongst otherwise deceitful and self-gratifying flowers – the proud ones, you understand. The roses, the birds of paradise, these are the ones that think much of themselves. Meanwhile, the humble golden flower hides in the shadows awaiting someone to accidentally stumble upon its blooming beauty. The Chrysanthemum is noble precisely because it is humble – because it knows the fragility and fleetingness of life, and because it permits love that is otherwise frowned-upon by those who are proud but surely crave such love themselves."

Saraiah's eyes had now floated up to meet his. "In other words," she said quietly, "you see all of the meanings woven together in the primary one of nobility. The death, the...forbidden love...they are all things known by your sweet golden flower. Not pursued, necessarily, but realized as the essence of life."

"Exactly!" His eyes were shining. "You're brilliant, Saraiah. I'm glad you understand me." As he said this, his hand was hovering just beside her cheek, brushing a thin piece of flyaway hair from her face. She felt herself breathing faster, hoping he might brush unknowingly against her cheek...

Yet he looked away when he realized the intensity of the moment he had created. The toast was suddenly once more the object of his attention.

"So..." Saraiah quickly covered. "How did you come to such a meaning as significant for yourself?"

He let his eyes find hers again. "Saraiah Cross, the man before you is nothing. Perhaps even less than you realize. I do not deny it, and I do not despise it. I simply wish to serve the beauty of another gentle spirit with what little I have so that she might have help in realizing her own beauty..."

_She..._Saraiah's heart leaped. And now pounded. Could he mean her? And if so, she now questioned, was this chemistry between them something he had foreseen? Perhaps he had known of her before...and perhaps he had wished to come here. Had he even produced an elaborate plan involving the ignorant Declan and his consort...and if so, was he a stalker, or for real, a potential lover? So many questions...

And so much pleasure, lighting up the room once more in a red shock as Saraiah found her lips against his, the tips of their tongues grazing, and the nibblings of fang to lip. He had wanted to return her favours...and now, she thought as blood jolted pleasurably through her veins, he was.


End file.
